


The Naughty or Nice Affair

by akane42me



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2015-12-12
Packaged: 2018-05-06 08:43:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5410370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akane42me/pseuds/akane42me
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Down the Chimney 2015<br/>- A bit of Holiday Cheer and a Merry Christmas to you, Eilidhsd!</p>
    </blockquote>





	The Naughty or Nice Affair

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Eilidhsd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eilidhsd/gifts).



> Down the Chimney 2015  
> \- A bit of Holiday Cheer and a Merry Christmas to you, Eilidhsd!

**Christmas Eve Day**

The transatlantic telephone call came on Christmas Eve morning. Her girlfriend, Helene, calling. Angelique could hear voices in the background. Laughing, giggling.

“Kaye, Sylvie, and I are coming come to New York for New Year’s Eve! Victor has made room for us on the plane!”

“Victor _Marton_? What are you doing with Victor? No, don’t tell me. How utterly disgusting.”

“Don’t act the schoolgirl, chèri. You know as well as I that getting ahead requires inventiveness and accommodation, and virtue has no place in the mix.”

“I was beginning to wonder if Victor even likes girls.”

“Victor Marton likes a bit of everything. Stop laughing and pay attention! I’m putting you in charge of making New Year’s Eve reservations for us.” 

“With only a week to spare? All the best places will be booked by now. You’ll have to get Victor to do it.”

“Victor refuses. He has plans of his own for New Year’s Eve that don’t involve me. Besides, convincing even the most formidable maître d’ to add a table at the last moment is nothing for you.”  

Angelique laughed. “True. A little charm can go a long way.”

“I imagine there must be more than charm involved.”

“I can’t imagine what you mean.”

“Speaking of charm, your Mr. Solo’s name came up over drinks last night.”

“He’s not my Mr. Solo. Who is talking about him?”

“Victor. Did you know, on Christmas Eve, Napoleon Solo takes his mother to Midnight Mass? Providing, of course, he is not off somewhere causing trouble for Thrush. I nearly choked on the olive in my martini when Victor told me. Can you imagine, Napoleon Solo in a church? The saints and angels must laugh themselves silly.”

The fine hairs on Angelique’s forearms stood on end. “Why on earth would Victor know about Napoleon’s whereabouts on Christmas Eve?” 

“He had just come from a planning session, and when I asked him how the meeting went, he declared it utter tedium, save for one topic—your Mr. Solo.”

Angelique took care to put a light note in her voice. “Helene, _please_. He is _not_ my Mr. Solo. But you’ve got me simply burning with curiosity—what did they say about him?” 

“Apparently, Solo has ruined one too many of their goals this year, and the Committee decided to do something about it. You should have seen the look on Victor’s face. He actually looked happy. The old fossil, I thought his face would crack. It was so funny!”

“What are they going to do?” She forced a laugh, hoping Helene had not caught the urgency in her tone. “I can’t wait to hear, it must be something delicious!”

“Oh, it is!  They’re going to —” Helene’s voice clucked on, describing the plan. By the time she’d wound down, Angelique’s face had turned pale. She said her goodbyes to Helene and put down the telephone receiver with an unsteady hand.

\----

  

 **Christmas Eve**

Well before the Midnight Mass crowd arrived, the man dressed in black entered the church through the south side entrance. He removed his hat, a black fedora, and brushed a few flakes of snow from the shoulders of his black coat as he passed through the entrance. He pushed the interior door open and paused in the doorway, taking in his surroundings.  

It was dark inside but for a dim pool of light cast by the night light at the main entrance in the rear, the sanctuary lamp up front, and the glowing votive candles in the racks before the side altars. The scent of burned candle wax permeated the air. And something else – he sniffed at it – of course. A row of tall pines stood at the back of the sanctuary. A nativity set was tucked below the two on the left. 

He walked down the side aisle toward the confessional, a three-door setup. Here and there a few people knelt, arms resting on the pew tops, hands folded in prayer. Early birds looking for extra credit. No one looked up. He kept his head down, opened the center door to the priest’s compartment, and slipped inside. He settled himself on the padded wooden bench and waited in the dark. He checked the time.  His wristwatch’s luminous dial glowed in the dark. Ten thirty. Plenty early. Good thing the seat was padded. He pulled his weapon from inside his coat. He’d already attached the silencer. He checked the clip, checked the chamber. He rubbed his hands over the cool, dull black metal and waited. Occasionally one or two more people entered the church. A pew would creak, a kneeler would bump softly on the marble terrazzo floor. The long silence was broken only by muffled coughs and whispered prayers. 

At 11:30 things picked up. The overhead lamps snapped on, four at a time, lighting the quadrants of the church, front to back, left, then right. Footsteps scuffed across the sanctuary. A match scraped against a strike bar. The footsteps moved, paused, moved again. The altar boy, lighting altar candles. A herd of footsteps passed through the rear entrance and plodded their way up the stairs to the choir loft. The first quiet notes of a Christmas hymn floated down from the pipe organ, accompanied by clearing of throats and shuffling of hymnal pages. The big bells in the church tower began to peal, chiming in the cold Christmas Eve air, high and low, high and low. 

So-lo, So-lo, come to church, Solo.

They’d told him Solo’s mother always came up the side aisle and sat in a pew near the confessional.  From yesterday’s test run, he’d immediately seen the confessional was perfect for his needs. Three half-inch slots were cut into the door at eye height. They’d probably been put there for ventilation, but they may as well have been custom made for a look-out and firing slot. He couldn’t believe his luck. He stood, raised the pistol and took a practice aim through the center slot, swiveling to cover the approach from the rear entrance of the church to the confessional.

Midnight Mass would be crowded. If Solo and his mother came late, they might have to sit somewhere else. In that event, he would leave the confessional, get behind them, use the hat to cover the gun, and _pfffft._ Merry Christmas, baby.

He hooked his trigger finger behind the white collar and tugged it away from his Adam’s apple. These damn things were tight.

A clamor of chiming bells burst through the church as the rear doors opened. The priest peered through the ventilation holes. Showtime, he thought with a thrill of excitement. Solo and his mother were making their way along the rearmost pew, heading toward the side aisle. Just like they’d said. He raised the gun.

The right-hand confessional door opened and closed. Someone knelt down. He stood, frozen in place.

“Bless me Father, for I am about to sin,” came a woman’s breathless voice from the other side of the screened partition between the compartments.

He leaned toward the screen. “Confessions are closed,” he hissed. _Wait, what did she say? I am about to—_

A black-gloved hand holding a silenced gun burst through the screen. The gun coughed. The priest slapped at the side of his neck with his free hand. He lurched away from the partition, tipped over, and fell to the floor. His head and shoulders struck the confessional door, knocking it open, and his upper body spilled out into the aisle. A blond haired man ran up the aisle to the confessional and crouched over the priest. Behind him, voices rose in alarm.  

Illya Kuryakin turned and spoke to the hovering faces.  “I'm a doctor. He’s fainted, that’s all. Give us some room, please.” The people pulled back. Kuryakin gently slapped the sides of the priest’s face, and the priest stirred. “See? He’s coming around already.” He bent close to the priest's ear and whispered, “If you move, you will regret it. Permanently.” The priest’s head lolled to one side and Kuryakin saw the dart lodged in the man’s neck. Its design was immediately recognizable – Thrush. Thrush? Perplexed, Kuryakin pulled it out and pocketed it. Sorting it out would have to wait, for the priest’s face was turning cherry red, and white froth bubbled at his lips. Footsteps came running up the aisle. Solo, with his mother trotting behind. 

Solo skidded to a halt and looked down at Kuryakin and the priest. “How is he?”

“He will be just fine, thank you,” Kuryakin said loudly. From the corner of his eye, he caught a blur of movement - a woman in black, slipping from the side confessional booth, a wisp of platinum blonde hair escaping her black chiffon headscarf. Solo’s mother pushed in close and bent to see the priest. Kuryakin kept his eyes on the woman. She vanished into the crowd.  

Mrs. Solo said, “Looks like his Christmas goose is cooked, eh?”

Kuryakin scowled at Solo’s mother. “Keep your voice down, Fenton. And straighten your wig. You look drunk.”

“Oops,” said Fenton, clamping a hand to his veiled green hat and giving it a firm twist. He turned to Solo and said in a cracked falsetto voice, “I’ll get your cousins to help you carry Father O’Malley outside, dear.” He waved to a couple of men standing in a pew across the center aisle, then tugged at his  backside, twisted around and inspected his stockinged calves. “Dang. I got a runner.”  

\----

**Christmas Day**

“The tip was accurate,” said Waverly. He turned to Kuryakin. “Your suspicions were correct. Dr. Simpson’s people have run comparisons of the voice in the message to other samples of Angelique’s voice. They match.” 

The door to his office slid open and Solo walked in. Without preamble, he brought Waverly and Kuryakin up to date. “The man was a Thrush agent. Medical is running tests, but it looks like he was shot with a cyanide dart.”

“A Thrush cyanide dart. Mr. Kuryakin suggested we have Angelique to thank for your safety. It’s just been confirmed.”

Solo raised his eyebrows at Kuryakin. “The tip came from Angelique?”

Kuryakin said, “I saw her slither away during the ruckus at church.” 

Waverly had moved to his console. He pushed a button. A woman’s voice said, “Tell Mr. Solo to stay away from Midnight Mass.” Waverly moved to re-played it, but Solo was already nodding his head.  

“I’d think I’d better pay our friendly enemy a little visit,” he said, turning to leave.

“Not yet, Mr. Solo.” Waverly sat at his desk and motioned to the chairs in front of it. “Sit down. Both of you.” As they settled in, he continued. “Why did Angelique secretly interfere with Thrush’s plan to kill Mr. Solo? Not only did she tip us off, she eliminated the threat herself rather than let U.N.C.L.E. do it.”

Solo said, “Well, she wants me alive, obviously.”

“Her instructions were for you to stay away from church. That should have been enough. Stay home, stay alive,” said Kuryakin.

“Maybe she went to church in case we didn’t believe the tip. She knew what to look for and beat us to it,” said Solo. “She does tend to take things into her own hands.”

“The question remains – why?” asked Waverly. “Why would Angelique betray Thrush to protect Mr. Solo?”

Kuryakin and Waverly looked at Solo. He felt his cheeks warm.

“Your perplexing alliance, Mr. Solo is worth a good deal to her. Perhaps she cares a bit too much for you for her own good.”

Kuryakin snorted and shook his head.

Solo said, “She enjoys having me as an ally against the occasional common enemy.” He looked at Kuryakin. “I’m worth more to her alive than dead, that’s all.”

Waverly smiled thinly. “I want you to give her a message from me. We will keep her secret – for a price. The occasional bit of assistance. A call here and there. If she refuses to cooperate, I will make sure Thrush gets a copy of her call. She knows what they will do to her.” 

Solo turned to Kuryakin. “Shall we?” 

“The sooner we get it over with, the better.”

“Let it wait until tomorrow,” said Waverly. “Let’s let Angelique worry about the ramifications of her actions for a day. It may make her more open to my offer. The two of you can take the day off. Enjoy a bit of the holiday. But keep your communicators on.”

Solo smiled benignly. “Of course.”

“Merry Christmas, gentlemen.”

\------

 

As they went to the elevator, Solo sighed and said, “I don’t like it. But I can’t blame Mr. Waverly for giving it a try.”

Kuryakin said nothing for a moment. “I don’t like it either. You’re already too involved with her. She’s going to try to leverage what she did. She’ll call you, asking for a little favor. To use you for something you wouldn’t ordinarily—”

Solo said, She can try. But it won’t work. We’re doing the same thing to her – leverage what she did – to coerce her into doing something she wouldn’t ordinarily do. It won’t work. So we’re even.”   

“Part of me wishes Thrush finds out and gets rid of her for once and for all,” said Kuryakin. They reached the elevator. He jabbed the button for the underground parking ramp. “But she did save your life.” The elevator opened and they stepped in. She’s going to be so smug. She’s pompous enough as it is.”

\----

Her Christmas was far from merry. 

It began poorly. In the early morning Angelique called Helene to wish her a Merry Christmas, but Helene, it seemed, was not home. She tried again several times throughout the morning, with no success. 

Feeling out of sorts, she decided to open her Christmas presents, thinking it might cheer her up. Package by package, she tore off the paper, opened the boxes, and barely glanced at the contents before tossing them back under the tree. Altogether there were three sweaters in her favorite colors, two scarves, and a diamond necklace with matching earrings. It was all so boring. She’d had the department stores gift wrap them and deliver them last week. 

She took a nap.

It got worse. She was in the midst of choosing a gown to wear to dinner when her date called to cancel. Grandmother died. Unexpected illness. So sorry, my dear. In a pig’s eye. He didn’t realize he’d just ruined his career. Too bad. He was so handsome. She leafed through her address book and began to make calls. It would be easy enough to put together a little Christmas party right here, in her apartment. Any number of people would jump at the invitation. Her caterer was a genius at impromptu soirees. But it was Christmas day and many telephones were left unattended, so she was forced to leave quite a lot of messages. As for the few people she did reach, they all had plans. No one offered her an invitation in turn to join them, either. How rude, she thought, and brushed away the seeds of doubt that grew each time she hung up the telephone.  

By late afternoon she began to worry. Why did no one return her calls? A surge of anger washed through her. Somehow, they all knew what she'd done. They were avoiding her. Helene must have told someone that she’d let Angelique in on the plan to kill Solo. Surely the Council would understand. Surely they knew the value of playing the long game with Solo. Perhaps she _had_ gone a bit too far.

In the end, she’d ordered dinner for delivery and opened some wine. By the time the food arrived she no longer cared about eating. She left it on the table, untouched, and opened another bottle of wine instead. She fell asleep on the sofa while watching television by the light of the Christmas tree. She woke to the off-air test pattern and went to bed.

\----

 

**The Day After Christmas**

The morning brought blinding sunshine, painfully blue skies, and a stabbing headache at the base of her skull. Angelique yanked at the bedroom curtains, re-closing them in haste. She wandered into the living room and threw a frown at the Christmas tree. She would tell the building manager to have the thing taken out in the afternoon. Good riddance.

She went to the kitchen and made a pot of coffee. While it percolated, she showered and got dressed.

She poured a cup of coffee and retrieved the newspaper from the little antique table in the hallway next to her door. As she crossed the living room to the sofa, a glint of gold beneath the tree caught her eye.  There, hidden among the opened boxes sat a Christmas gift, perfectly wrapped in gold paper, red ribbon and bow. 

How in the world did that—she set the coffee and newspaper on the coffee table and picked up the gold box.

She opened it, lifted the folds of red tissue paper, and found a plain, cream-colored note card. She opened it. _Thank you_. No signature. None needed. She smiled. Napoleon was a good ally. She would have to think up something special for him.

Later that day as she paged through a magazine, a knock came at the door.  She crept to the door softly, slowly, and listened. Two unhappy voices in the hall, bickering. Napoleon was saying, “…take threats lightly.” And his sour pickle of a partner, Kuryakin, replying, “Just tell her and get it over with.”

She opened the door with a flourish. “How wonderful to see you, Napoleon.” She made a face at Kuryakin, spun on her heel, and returned to the sofa. “Close the door, darling. You’ve let in a draft. And something unsavory seems to have followed you in.” She smiled at Solo and ignored Kuryakin, who frowned and walked to the window next to the Christmas tree, using a foot to push a couple of boxes out of the way. The oaf. She beamed at Napoleon. “Let’s have a bit of champagne, nothing special, I’m afraid, but it’s all I have on hand. Just a toast, to thank _you_ for the thank y—”

“Angelique.” Kuryakin’s sharp voice stopped her cold. “This isn’t a social call. We have a message for you from Mr. Waverly.”

Thirty seconds later, her smile was gone, flattened to something resembling barbed wire. “This is what I get for helping you? If Alexander Waverly thinks he’s going to pressure me into betraying Thrush, he’s delusional.” 

Kuryakin turned from the window. “You’ve already betrayed Thrush.”

“No, I have not. I saved a friend’s life. Are you so obtuse, you can’t see the difference?” She flew from the sofa to the door and tore it open. “Get out. Both of you. Do you think you can manage to slink away without detection? I’m going to have enough lying to do as it is without explaining why two men from U.N.C.L.E. are in my home. Spare me the look of concern, Napoleon. I have the situation well in hand.”

She slammed the door on their backs and flounced back to the sofa. She was so angry, she’d forgotten to finish thanking that rat-fink Solo for the gift.

\---

 

The telephone rang. She expected it would be Napoleon with an apology, picking up the pieces after their altercation. She had half an acceptance speech ready by the time she picked up the receiver. _I understand, darling. You’re merely the messenger, not the—_

Brittle words crackled from the receiver as she brought it to her ear. “Santa has put you on the naughty list, my duplicitous dear.” Victor Marton’s voice, cold as a graveyard stone.

She didn’t bother to lie. “If you could see past that pointy beak of yours, Victor, you’d know I had good reason to keep him alive. He’s valuable.”

“The Committee disagrees. They want to know how U.N.C.L.E. managed to kill their killer.”

She caught her breath. “They don’t know.”

“No, they don’t. And it’s going to stay that way, if you want to live. So keep your mouth shut.”

“Why, Victor. I didn’t know you cared.” 

“This is no joke. If you tell anyone that I mentioned the assassination plot to Helene, I will know. And I will make sure you regret it in a thousand painful ways before you draw your last breath.”

Her mind reeled.  He wasn’t protecting her. He was protecting himself from his indiscretion with Helene.   

“I’ve persuaded Helene to start a rumor that you have a highly contagious disease of an unmentionable nature. That should insulate you for a while. I advise you to take a long trip on a slow boat to a desert isle until this blows over.”

“So you’re responsible for my sudden isolation? Not the Committee?”

“Yes. And you had better do my bidding, or I will let your cat out of its mink-lined bag – that it was you who killed the priest. Did you think I wouldn’t figure it out? The Committee frowns on betrayal.”

“Don’t threaten me, Victor. And don’t question my loyalty. I would never betray Thrush.”

“You have a funny way of showing it, Angelique.”

“We wouldn’t be having this conversation if _you’d_ kept your mouth shut during— _drinks_ —is that what they’re calling it now?—with Helene. If you tell on me, Victor, I promise you, I will tell on you. It’s mutually assured destruction. You won’t push that button, darling.”

Marton made a growling noise and hung up. The nerve of the man. He was worse than Waverly.

She immediately called Helene. Sylvie answered the telephone.

“Helene is sleeping. She is ill. She fell down the stairs. It was an accident, really, it was, a slip.”

“Sylvie, stop lying. Was Victor there yesterday? Do not let him near Helene. He is dangerous. He—”

“Don’t blame Victor. You are to blame for this. Helene tells you something, and now she is in bed from falling down the stairs, because of you. And we must stay in Paris for New Year’s Eve.” A soft click, and the line went dead.

Stunned, Angelique lay the receiver in its cradle. She’d have to put some extra starch in her spine to get through the days to come, until things settled down. In the meanwhile, Victor had better come up with a good story for the Committee to protect them both.

\----

**New Year’s Eve**

She dealt the cards in orderly rows. The base row of one card face-up, a good one, an ace, followed by six face-down, across the surface of the coffee table. The subsequent row revealed a king. More good luck. She would move the ace and have a place for the king.  

The king of diamonds. She took a sip of wine. The King stared past her with his one eye, a rather ominous looking fellow. The man with the axe. Was it an omen of what the New Year held for her? Would it be any worse to be killed by Thrush for what she’d done than to endure this humiliation?      

Angelique looked around at her surroundings. The silent apartment. Her dinner, untouched. Food had no taste. Who cared? Who wanted to eat alone? She took an unsteady swallow of champagne. She checked the bottle. Nearly empty. That’s what comes from drinking alone during an exhilarating game of solitaire, she thought. No distractions. No conversation. No laughter. She put the glass down.

The doorbell rang, ding, ding, da-ding ding. Napoleon’s quirky signal. She jumped to her feet, glanced at the mantel clock. Not quite nine o’clock, not too late to go out for dinner and dancing. She put a hand to her hair, smoothing it, and hastened to the door, smiling as she unlatched the chain and turned the knob.

“I had a feeling you would turn up,” she said as she opened the door.

Kuryakin stood there, looking as surprised as she was. “I find that hard to believe.”

“Oh. It’s the bad penny. My misfortune continues.” She padded back to the sofa, flopped down, and resumed her game of solitaire, letting him stand in the open doorway.

“You might as well come in. Not even you could make this night any worse than it already is.”

Kuryakin came in, closed the door, took off his coat, stood watching her.

“For heaven’s sake, sit down. Get a glass first. Here’s some champagne. Oops, bring a new bottle from the refrigerator.”  

He went to the kitchen. 

“Why are you here? And how did you know to ring the bell like Napoleon? Never mind. I don’t care.”

From the kitchen came the pop of a cork. Kuryakin said, “I was in the neighborhood.”

“I doubt that. Are you spying on me, Mr. Kuryakin?”

He returned to the living room, glass in one hand, bottle in the other. For a moment, she thought he looked embarrassed. But he quickly covered it with his usual disagreeable expression, and poured the wine, first in her glass, then his.  

“I was at my tea shop.”

“Where’s your tea?”

“The shop was closed.” 

“I don’t believe you. I saw how surprised you were to see me. You thought I’d be out. You were planning to break into my apartment, weren’t you? If I hadn’t answered the door, you would have picked my lock.  Give me a refill before you answer. It will give you time to make up a better lie.”

He said nothing. He avoided her gaze as he handed her glass to her.

“Relax. I was joking, Mr. Kuryakin. You do understand humor, don’t you? Sit down. Here. Next to me.”

Kuryakin sat. He picked up the ace.

“Put that back. Look at me.” Perhaps it was the wine. She didn’t stop to think about it. But she knew the answer, even as she asked, “It was you, wasn’t it? Not Napoleon.”

Perhaps it was the wine. He didn’t stop to think about it either. “You saved my partner’s life. For that, I wanted to—” He took a sip of wine. It went down the wrong way, and he fell into a coughing paroxysm.

“You can’t say it to my face, can you?” Angelique picked up the cards and threw them at him. “Get out.”   

\-----

 

**New Year’s Day**

The box was delivered to Illya Kuryakin’s desk on New Year’s Day. It was a large box, perfectly wrapped in gold paper, red ribbon and bow. Kuryakin set his coffee on the desk and picked up the box. It was heavy. He put it back down, opened it, lifted the folds of red tissue paper, and found a basket of prickly pears. He lifted it from the box and put it on his desk. At the bottom of the box lay a plain, cream-colored note card. He opened it.

 _You're Welcome_. No signature. None needed. He smiled.

 

 **The End**  

  

 


End file.
